The Scribe(139)

“It’s all lies,” Theresa insisted. “He would never—” Her sobbing prevented her from continuing.

“I’m certain of it—so now the important thing is to find him. We don’t know why he disappeared, but I promise I will solve the mystery.”

He waited for Theresa to dry her tears. Then he helped her wrap up warm, alerted Rutgarda, and they all left together through a back door that led into the fortress. There he requested that Wilfred accommodate them in the main building, which was warmer and safer, instructing Theresa to stay in the room for a few days.

In the middle of the afternoon, Alcuin found Wilfred in the scriptorium. His dogs growled as soon as they saw him, but the count soothed them. He flicked the reins and the animals pulled him toward Alcuin, who offered them two pieces of meat that he had pilfered from the kitchens. The hounds devoured the fillets as if they hadn’t eaten for months.

He noticed that Wilfred still had the rag doll that his daughters had left behind. It had curious white eyes made from pebbles, on which someone had painted rough blue irises.

“How do you open doors?” the monk inquired.

“Either I use this hook,” he said, showing him a sort of harpoon attached to a hazel branch, “or the dogs pull me close. What brings you here?”

“A delicate matter. You said that Genseric was stabbed to death.”

“That’s right. Run through with a stylus.” He urged on the hounds, which turned around and dragged him to a small alcove. Opening a drawer, he removed a stylus of the type used by scribes, and showed it to him. “With this one to be precise.”

The monk studied it closely. “It’s of high quality,” he remarked. “Did it belong to Gorgias?”

Wilfred nodded and then returned it to the same place.

Alcuin examined the table that was used as a writing desk. He asked whether it was where Gorgias wrote, and the count confirmed that it was. There were several other styluses lined up neatly alongside some inkwells and a little jar of pounce. A thick layer of dust covered the instruments, with the exception of two long, thin areas that were cleaner. Upon noticing this, Alcuin grew suspicious, but he kept his thoughts to himself, continuing his examination as if he hadn’t noticed anything amiss. He was surprised not to find the texts in Greek that Gorgias would undoubtedly have needed to prepare the manuscript. When he brought up the matter of exhuming Genseric’s body, Wilfred arched an eyebrow.

“Disinter him? Whatever for?”

“I would like to grant him the blessing of the holy relics,” the monk lied. “Flavio is the guardian of the lignum crucis, the wood from Christ’s cross.”

“Yes, I know, but I don’t understand.”

“Genseric died unexpectedly, perhaps with some sin on his conscience. Since we have these relics, it would be uncharitable not to use them to sanctify his body.”

“And to do that we have to take him from his grave?”

Alcuin assured him that it was necessary.

After a few moments’ hesitation, Wilfred agreed. However, he did not accompany him, but summoned the giant Theodor to show him to Genseric’s resting place.


In addition to being half a body bigger than any other person, Theodor was also half-mute. As he tirelessly removed spadesful of earth, all he mumbled was that the grave stank of dung. Alcuin thought he would be lying if he said Theodor smelled any better.

After some puffing and panting, Theodor’s spade struck the coffin. Alcuin was pleased to see they had used a timber casket, for otherwise the earth would have ruined any clues left by the murderer. Using another spade, Alcuin scraped away the remnants of soil and asked Theodor to help him pull the coffin up and out, which he did. But when he ordered him to lift the lid, the blue-eyed giant told him it was not his business and stepped away, leaving Alcuin alone with the casket. On the third attempt, the lid came open.

As soon as he lifted it, the stench made them both vomit. Theodor moved farther away while Alcuin contended with the creatures swarming over Genseric’s corpse. The monk protected his nose with a rag as he brushed away the worms that had amassed on the half-rotten face. Then he searched the body’s habit for the place where the stylus had been thrust into him. He found the opening over the stomach: a small, clean incision. He noted the ring of dried blood around it, guessing that the diameter of the stain was about that of a candle. Next he observed the worm-eaten face, with no sign of the froth Bernardino had mentioned. However, he did find traces of it on the neckline of the habit, so taking a knife he cut off a piece of the fabric, shaking off the larvae, and put it in a pouch. Then he carefully examined the palms. The right one seemed bruised, with two strange cavities. When he had finished, he took out a piece of wood and pretended it was the lignum crucis, placing it in the coffin while saying a prayer. Finally he replaced the lid and asked the giant to help him rebury the casket.

In the evening some dishes of fish were served in the refectory that seemed to offend Flavio Diacono. Wilfred apologized for the food, but there were not enough provisions for elaborate feasts or celebrations, as even his own reserves were almost depleted.

“It is a shame some of the supplies were lost under the ice,” Wilfred lamented. “The townspeople were desperate for that food.”

“Are the provisions from the ship not sufficient?” Flavio asked.

“Ha! A half-dead ox, six pecks of wheat, and three sacks of oatmeal. You call those provisions? They won’t even reach their plates.”